Heart of Frost: Outtakes
by Chalybeous
Summary: Just little drips and drabs from my Skyrim saga, mistakes and misfires that didn't make it into any of the stories. Some are shorter, some are longer, might even take a few requests ;D Rated M for smut, language, violence, ya know…
1. Chapter 1

**This is a Misfire from Chapter Fifteen in Heart of Frost, right after Gerhild is named a Thane of Markarth and buys Vlindrel Hall. It's the scene where they start tallying the score, who saved whom more often, and they were supposed to end up kissing. I tried it several different ways before I realized it wasn't the time yet for anything deeply passionate or emotional between them. In this really, really old version, Vorstag confesses what happened to him in Cidhna Mine. Never could get this to sound right, much less have it lead to a kiss—either passionate or awkward—so out it came. Actually, not sure why I kept it, either. :/ Maybe just to keep my head canon straight, about what happened to Vorstag within Cidhna Mine…**

"So, you joined the Stormcloaks. Was it because of what happened to you at Helgen? What the Thalmor did to you?"

Gerhild looked at Vorstag, her eyes alight with an unholy fire he had never seen in them before. It flashed, there and gone as quickly as lightning in the midnight of her eyes. But he had seen it. And she knew he had seen it. She didn't know what to say, how to answer, especially after he had again seen far too much of her soul. She turned away, her mind refusing to form a coherent sentence. If she talked, if she said anything to him, about that… She couldn't. It was too personal. He knew, damn it, he knew already what had been done to her. There was no reason to speak of it, to spell it out, to remember every detail and…

He touched her shoulder, and she trembled.

"Gerhild," her name sounded so natural, so perfect, coming from his lips. His breath was warm against the back of her ear. Through the fabric of her leggings she could feel his body close to hers, but not touching, except for the one hand lightly kneading on her shoulder.

The Thalmor called it questioning, others called it torture, but he knew what had happened to her went beyond that. She was close to admitting it; he could see it. All she needed was a push in the right direction, or a hard shove, and she might finally be able to heal. And after healing, she'd be able to feel. It was time to make a stab at melting the damnable ice surrounding her broken heart.

"You're not doing yourself any favors, running around like this," he chided her none too gently. "You're cold, and you think it protects you. But it doesn't. It's killing you, slowly. Aye, you let yourself feel anger, but it isn't enough. It'll never be enough of an emotion. You have to face what happened, not hide from it. And you have to forgive yourself."

"Forgive myself," she faintly hissed, feeding her anger even though he had just told her not to. "Why should I need to forgive myself? What did I do wrong?"

"Exactly." He pulled her shoulder, but she refused to face him. "You didn't do anything wrong." He shifted around to her front, but she refused to look up at him. "It was done to you." His other hand gripped her chin, perhaps less tenderly than necessary, and he forced her face up towards his. "Say it, Gerhild." He paused to swallow, his eyes flickering between her lowered eyes. "I was raped."

There was something different, something off about the tone of his voice. He wasn't scolding her anymore, forcing her to face her abuse. She swallowed, he almost sounded as if he was saying those words himself, not asking her to say them. Confused, she finally lifted her gaze to his. "You…?" not knowing how to ask, but knowing he would understand.

"You're not the only one with abuse in their past. It happened to me. In Cidhna Mine. Why do you think Hamming went down the wrong tunnel that day? He was looking for a place where we could hide. There weren't any women prisoners when we were there, and we were the newest… the youngest men. You know what it's like; some of the other prisoners have been in there for so long, they take whatever comes along. They still came and used me after Hamming's death, until the next new prisoner showed up." He glanced away, "Gods forgive me, but I did nothing to help him. I was just glad they left me alone."

**A/N: been thinking of writing about Vorstag's experiences in Cidhna Mine, or even what transpired between Vorstag and Argis in Riften…**

**Anyone interested?**

**Addendum: okay, thanks to Lev responding (literally right after I posted), I will be working on both of Vorstag's background stories. Might take me a bit, but Cidhna Mine will be the next part of _Outtakes_, and then Riften. Should be a good three-four chapters worth ;D**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: the Vorstag backstory is taking longer to write than anticipated, so I'm putting this up...**

**WARNING: some may find the following scene triggering.**

**This is an alternate Chapter Twenty-Four from Heart of Frost, where Ralof and Vorstag head off to get drunk—I mean acquainted, and Ulfric seduces Gerhild. While writing this, I was thinking Ulfric would be like Khan from the _Star Trek_ episode _Space Seed_. (The original series. I know, a really long time ago; it's an episode rife with sexual tension, if you ever get the chance to watch it.)**

**Anyway, it didn't work, because Gerhild wasn't such a weak character that Ulfric could dominate her like that. Actually, I never posted it because it crossed the line into rape, could even be considered triggering. Seriously, this chapter is not for the faint of heart, not due to graphic reasons, but mental reasons. I'm calling this one a Mistake.**

Ulfric had watched her all evening, her dark gold hair soft and loose like her mother had worn her hair. Maeganna never styled her hair, except for the simple braid she'd wear during a battle, preferring to allow her hair to flow freely down her back. He could still remember the scent of it, and the weight, as his fingers would play and twist the thick strands. He used to spread the tresses over her shoulders like a cloak, caressing her skin through the strands, feeling her body respond to his touch through the mass of waves.

He pulled his mind to the present, reminding himself it was Gerhild who sat at his right, not her mother. Gerhild, who had nearly lost her head at Helgen, who had become Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, and who was… Dragonborn…? He had scoffed when she first told him what she could do, what the Greybeards were teaching her. He thought she was embellishing, trying to make herself look competent and formidable beyond her tender age. It was ridiculous. He couldn't believe that the gods would send a child to Nirn in time to face the World-Eater.

Yet that is exactly what the gods had done. He had heard the stories beginning to spread, of the young Nord woman who fought a dragon outside Whiterun, and again not far from Rorikstead, and absorbed their souls, who called herself Dragonborn. There was a third story, this time taking place just north of Markarth, though the Dragonborn was now covering her face to hide her features. He had begun to believe it, that she, Gerhild, the daughter of Maeganna, was truly Dragonborn.

This young child, this girl who should have been his daughter, this consummate actress and talented spy. He had watched her closely through the meal, and the subtle expressions that played across her features. Not the overt laughter nor the bosom-heaving sighs, but the slight raise of an eyebrow or the brief tick in her left eye. These hidden mannerisms where her true feelings, and he found himself wondering what had caused her to bury these feelings so deeply that only a mere glimpse of them could ever be seen.

He was so lost in memories that he hadn't noticed he had stepped up to Gerhild, until she turned around and nearly ran into his chest. The surprise on her face was expressed within a single raised eyebrow and a slight parting of her bow shaped lips. No, she hadn't been expecting him to be standing there, and truthfully he hadn't expected it either. Still, he was the first to recover.

"You seemed so lost in thought," he began, deciding to express a sort of excuse for his unexpected closeness, "That I didn't feel it right to disturb you." He had been staring at her after Galmar and Jorleif left, watching the minuscule expressions flash across the otherwise blank canvas of her face as she pondered her deep thoughts. His own thoughts ran deep, though his focus was more divided than hers, so he noticed and was ready for her when she turned around.

"My Jarl," she inclined her head, observing that only the two of them remained in the main hall other than the patrolling guards, "I should apologize on Vorstag's behalf. He's a straightforward sort of man, used to giving honest opinions, and sometimes when they're not asked for."

Ulfric made a rumbling sound somewhat close to a laugh, and his eyes flashed briefly. "It is of no consequence. I have no problems with those who voice dissenting opinions, only those who refuse to obey orders. Why do you think I listen to Jorleif? The man continually vexes me, with his soft and peaceful thoughts, but he reminds me that there are those who do not share my intentions or that which drives me, and those people and their opinions are just as important as mine."

"Then I am glad I brought him with me."

"As am I." He took a moment, a self-indulgent moment to sweep her form once more, enjoying the darkness of her dress and the way it reflected onto her skin. He liked to think he was making her blush maidenly, but he knew better, the days when he could flirt and woo a girl were long gone. Holding his elbow out, he offered, "I find my thoughts are too restless just yet for sleep. Would you care to join me for a glass or two before retiring?"

There was a hesitation, almost over before it started, as she glanced to his offered elbow. Then the mask slipped back in place, and she was Lady Gerhild North-Wind once more. "I find myself unable to think of sleep just yet as well, since I had quite a nap this afternoon. I would be delighted to keep you company," she dropped her gaze with her knee, her curtsy gracious and demure. Unaware of his intentions, she rose and settled her hand in the crook of his arm, allowing him to lead her from the main hall.

They walked the corridors and stairs in silence, their footfalls echoing softly amongst the ancient stonework, their minds adjoined in quiet thoughts. Amazing they were thinking along the same lines as, after they entered Ulfric's chambers, he asked about the very same man she had been thinking. "How long have you known Vorstag?"

She was surprised he had been thinking about Vorstag, but only one delicate eyebrow rose to reflect this. "Since my first day in Markarth," she began, watching the Jarl walk over to a table set off to the side. He poured two glasses from the pitcher left there, and raised one to her as she continued, "I sort of got mixed up in something as soon as I walked into the city. A man named Weylin took out a dagger and tried to kill a woman named Margret, right there in the middle of the marketplace in broad daylight."

The names sounded familiar to him. "I remember you mentioned something of the sort in an earlier letter," he referred to the frequent reports she had written and sent him. Taking a sip of the dark gold liquid, he listened to her story.

"Well, after saving Margret, I quickly discovered myself embroiled in the middle of something way over my head. I needed a local, someone who knew the people and places and politics and such. The neighborhood tavern was the likely place to start looking. I spoke with the tavern keeper for a bit, but there was this man off to the side who kept listening in on my conversation. After I ordered a mug of mead, I looked around the room and took the measure of everyone there. The man who had been listening in, Vorstag, was sitting by the hearth trying not to look at me." She shrugged, "He was a Nord, he was a local, and he was interested in me. He seemed like the best choice."

"I don't quite follow your reasoning," Ulfric commented, amused by the way her mind worked. He watched her take a sip of the Black-Briar Reserve, a distilled version of mead, and saw a slight crease form across her brow. She recognized the drink, and with deliberate movements she set it aside, wary of its potency. He hid his smile behind his goatee and the rim of his own glass.

Gerhild held up her other hand and began ticking points off on her fingers. "The man who wanted me to help him, Eltrys, was a Breton and obviously biased. I needed someone honest, unbiased, and non-Breton, so I looked for a Nord." The second finger raised as she said, "I also needed someone who knew the area and the people who lived in Markarth, so I looked for someone who acted like he lived there and knew the city well." She held up a third finger, "And I wanted someone who would be loyal to me, and protect me, so I looked for someone who showed an interest in me, thinking the attraction would help influence him. Vorstag was obviously trying not to look at me, so just as obviously he felt some interest in me." She paused to pick up her glass again. "It turns out, I chose a little too well."

"Oh," he asked, genuinely curious, wondering if there was something between her and the sellsword.

She had taken another sip and had to ether swallow quickly or spit the liquid back into the glass. She chose to swallow, choked a little, and had to back away before Ulfric decided to pat her back. She was more wary of his heavy hands than she was of choking. "Excuse me. Aye, Vorstag was so interested in protecting me, he actually hindered my investigation at first. It took quite a bit of intimidation before he finally began to open up and talk with me about Markarth and the Forsworn." She left out Cidhna Mine; Ulfric didn't need to know of Vorstag's own experience in the mine unless he told him. She had already related her experience, dry and brief and vague, in one of her many reports.

"So, there is something between the two of you," he concluded. The next moment he was amazed at her laughter, light and gentle, though no part of the humor showed in her eyes.

"Aye, friendship," she allowed.

"Nothing… romantic?" he pressed.

She felt it was an opportune moment to roll her eyes but didn't, deciding to keep the mood tonight more mature. He watched her stare into her glass as she sought to find the right words. "Vorstag… prefers the dagger to the sheath."

He smiled a little at the discreet way she put it. He had deduced quite a bit of the young man's character this evening, the smallest clue a blazing beacon in Ulfric's experienced eyes. Vorstag had been protective of her as she recovered from being knocked unconscious, not uncommon for a hireling, but most would have looked to their own welfare and distanced themselves in a situation like that. He had been nervous and uncomfortable at dinner; the hasty bathing using her borrowed soap and Ralof's borrowed clothes made it obvious that he didn't dine with Jarls every night. Yet he had been willing to suffer tonight because she had asked it of him. "Are you sure?" he asked, thinking few men would put up with such pains unless deeper feelings and motives were involved.

"As sure as I can be," she shrugged, "Without a dagger of my own to test it." When he didn't answer, she added, "In the mountains we spent several nights, sleeping close together for warmth. Never once did I feel any sort of… reaction… from him to having our bodies so close together."

Ulfric could well imagine how to keep such reactions hidden, but kept this to himself. He decided that regardless of what Vorstag felt, Gerhild held no feeling for him, if she held any feelings at all. He made some sort of noncommittal sound, a deep and gravely sigh or hum, and allowed the matter to drop.

He watched her, holding her glass with both hands, standing straight and tall as she faced him. Her visage was so like her mother's that it made his heart ache. Maeganna, the only woman he ever loved. Maeganna, who had nearly birthed him an heir. That woman had been on his mind repeatedly tonight, ever since he had heard Gerhild was back, hurt and recovering in her room. He had rushed to see her, finding her standing in steel plate armor, her posture ready for battle, a stance so like her mother's… He had to physically turn away to pull his eyes off of her before he said or did something foolish. "Forgive me, but I have forgotten my manners. Would you care to sit?" he gestured to the chairs set near each other, tucked away in a cozy corner.

She didn't answer, but he could sense her following him to the chairs. He took his favored seat with his back to the corner, the cushions worn from all the other restless nights he had spent drinking or pacing or thinking. How many of those nights now lay behind him, the time non-reclaimable? He didn't want to think of it, knowing his days were more than halfway gone, even more so if he continued to lead his men in battle. And after his death, after he was gone, regardless if he ever managed to achieve sovereignty for Skyrim, his own hold of Windhelm would be without a Jarl, his line ended. In his youth, this goal, this dream of throwing out the Thalmor and freeing Skyrim from tyranny, had seemed worth the risk. Now as his years began to weigh equally heavy on his body and soul, he wished again he had managed to take Maeganna as his wife, regardless of her social status.

Yet he knew he could have done nothing other than what he did, even if he had known the consequences. He was driven, driven by his hatred of the Thalmor, driven by the unholy outlawing of Talos worship, driven by the unjust tyranny of a crumbling Empire already bowing to Thalmor masters…

"You appear troubled," Gerhild's cool voice broke into his thoughts, blowing away his dark mood like a gentle spring breeze. He smiled, a little but he made the effort to hold it, and lifted his face to hers.

"Don't mind me. I find I grow remorseful when it's late at night, and I'm alone in my chambers with nothing to do but think of the past."

She set aside her glass, and leaned over to lay her hands on his wrists. "You are not alone, nor are you without distraction." She straightened up a little as she pouted, "Or is my presence undesired?"

He laughed again, a little rueful, as he recognized the clumsy and unpracticed ploy. Once he would have pretended to fall for her unschooled charms, but now he knew better. "You would play with me, Gerhild? I wouldn't advise it. Most women find me an unsavory conquest."

She frowned. First of all, she didn't like being read so easily; only Vorstag could have read her intentions any clearer, though she would never have used such a ploy with him. And secondly, she didn't like the deprecating way he referred to himself. Ulfric acted as if he was obsessively depressed, perhaps suicidal. The thought of Eastmarch and the Stormcloaks leaderless sent a chill down her spine. If he wasn't here to fight against the Thalmor, she had no one to hold at her side. "Please, Ulfric," she pronounced his name the way Galmar did, the way Maeganna had, "Please, don't crumble on me. I need your strength, or mine will disappear and I'll be left at the mercy of the wind."

He looked up at her, saw the cool violet depths of her eyes appearing black in the candlelight, the pupils dilated with wine and dim lighting. He moved a hand to cover one of hers, without dislodging her other hand, and said, "Gerhild, my dear girl, you should not build your house on such an infirm foundation as another man. We are all fallible, all feeble. Look to yourself to find your strength, not to me."

"Are you so feeble," she challenged, her voice incongruously gentle, "Or so imperfect, my Jarl?"

"Do not call me that!" his anger flared before even he could notice it. To cover his embarrassment, as well as his simmering emotions, he disentangled their hands and stood, pacing towards the fire. He leaned his hands against the mantle, staring down into the flames, his braids falling forwards to hide his face. Her expression had been so shocked at his outburst, so open for once, he knew he had hurt her. He didn't want that, not tonight, not ever. "Out there, I am Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the Stormcloaks, Liberator of Skyrim. In here," he turned to her, one arm dropping from the mantle to gesture to himself, his eyes earnestly seeking understanding, "In this chamber, I am merely Ulfric, a man, no more, no less."

She had endured his anger, weathered its storm and the gentle breeze of explanation that followed. When she spoke, her words surprised him. "Well, that mystery is solved." At his bewildered expression, she stood and walked towards him, explaining, "I've noticed that Galmar pronounces your name with a double 'o'—Oolfric—the same as my parents called you. Yet everyone else pronounces your name with a 'u' sound. I've been wondering what you prefer, how you pronounce it. Now I know."

He looked at her for one moment longer, wanting to laugh, but he was too tired, too worn down by the day's troubles and everyone looking to him for leadership, for answers, for direction. And now, it seemed, Gerhild did as well. He was too weary of that. "Regardless, Gerhild, I am no stronger than the next. I am merely a man, weak, imperfect, unstable."

"Perhaps so, most of the time," she allowed, stopping in front of him. "But for one moment, one bitter moment in my young life, I needed a cornerstone, a guiding light, an anchor in the sea of chaos that threatened to drown me. My life was in shambles. My simple errand of delivering my father's message landed me in the back of a wagon on the way to my execution. As if to mock me, fate set the very man to whom I was to deliver the message, bound and gagged beside me." She placed her long, cool fingers against the edge of his jaw, holding his gaze. "I could have spoken to you then, but it would be too late, too impersonal, too brutal a deliverance. Bitterness I felt, aye, I was overwhelmed by it. And pain. And anguish. And more emotions than I care to even attempt to remember. I looked up at you, at your face, and knew that you recognized me for my parentage. And I saw your calm acceptance, your strength, to face death with bravery, even if bound and gagged and led to it like trussed up wild game. I admit it frightened me, to look at the headsman's block and know my neck would soon be gracing it. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to show weakness, either. I looked to you, as a touchstone, to show me how to be strong, how to be brave. I didn't know you had a plan to turn the tables on your abductors. I only knew that I wanted to face my death—my defeat—with the same strength and forbearance as you."

"You give me too much honor," he denied, his jaw moving against her hand, the hair of his beard brushing at the sensitive skin of her wrist. "Worship a god, not another man."

She tilted her head, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Was not your god, the one whose worship you safeguard, once a man? Talos. Tiber Septim. Ysmir." She let go of his head to clutch at her neck, drawing out her amulet by its chain. "Besides, if it's any god I worship, it's Stuhn."

He saw the horn, the symbol of Stendarr, and understood her intent. "You wear Stendarr's amulet, but give him his proper name. Stuhn, the Shield-thane of Shor, the Apologist of Man, the God of Ransom," the fingers of one hand reached up to stroke the amulet nestled just above her cleavage, "And Enemy of the Aldmeri. Fitting."

She was grateful that he understood. No one else had quite realized what she meant by wearing Stendarr's amulet. Most thought she was of one mind with the Vigilants of Stendarr, rooting out Daedra worshipers, vampires and werewolves and the like. But Ulfric understood. He remembered the old teachings, the Ancient Nordic worship, that Stuhn had shown man how to fight the Aldmeri. That race was extinct, but the Thalmor claimed to be descendants, and she was against the Thalmor.

Just as Ulfric was against the Thalmor.

Her eyes shone with the words she couldn't say, the meanings she couldn't convey. She felt his fingers touch the amulet, and then spread out from it and touch her through the fabric of her dress. Her body gave a little shudder, something she hadn't expected, and it shocked her into stillness, like a doe startled by a strange sound in the woods.

Ulfric let his fingers touch the amulet, allowing his fingers to slip off it and touch her, telling himself it was accidental. But he felt something beneath the fabric, something that even his toughened and calloused hands could sense. He walked his fingers up to the neck of her dress, and when his flesh touched hers, she gave a shudder of desire. He saw the startled look on her face, stronger than anything genuine he'd yet seen, and knew he had somehow awakened the deeply buried emotions to bring them closer to the surface. There was something in him, amazingly, that aroused her.

He hadn't affected a woman in such a way for years, and even before then there had only been Maeganna. And that was because she had been able to see past everything—every title or blemish or action—to find the man beneath. When they first met, she had seen the young man capable and ready to prove himself, not the sheltered Jarl's son who would be the ultimate sexual conquest for any woman aspiring to elevate her status. And after his imprisonment, the state and scars in which the Thalmor left him were far too ugly for anyone to find attractive. Yet she had seen past the prisoner or victim, seen past the damages and changes. She had seen Ulfric, the man she loved—she still loved.

When his thirst for revenge drove him insane, when he fought recklessly to redeem himself, when he willingly gave in to the berserker's rage and reveled in the gore and blood and death, it had been Maeganna's gentle touch, Maeganna's dark blue eyes that cooled his fevered madness. Without her love, he doubted he would have survived the rest of the Great War.

Now her daughter stood before him, her own destiny driving her into a kind of madness. He wondered if he could return the favor, save Gerhild as Maeganna had saved him. She already looked to him for guidance, for an example of how to act and survive. And it was obvious that she wanted this, or she wouldn't have agreed to come to his chambers so late at night, she wouldn't have tried clumsily to flirt with him, she wouldn't have responded to his touch despite the coldness she had wrapped around her heart.

He pulled gently at the neck of her dress, curious and yet knowing what he would find, having felt the raised ridge through the silk. Not far from the edge of fabric lay a scar, long and jagged, marring her otherwise creamy skin. Again he thought of a woman's vanity, the modest change in her style of clothing now explained. He looked at the length of the scar, how it crossed her chest to disappear somewhere beneath what was yet covered by her dress, and wondered how far it reached. "How did you get this?" he asked, fairly sure the scar hadn't been there on her first visit to Windhelm.

Her voice was husky as she answered, "Drascua, the Hagraven at Dead Crone Rock."

"I'm surprised she made it through your armor." He heard the tone in her voice, the cool clearness replaced by a deep throatiness. She was ready; whether she understood it or not, whether she intended it or not, her body was taking over from her mind. He could hear it in her voice, feel it through her clothing, see it in her flushed skin. Aye, it would be so simple, their bodies already so close together, and his latent member awakening from its long slumber. He could bed her tonight.

His fingers traced up to the back of her neck, undoing the clasp of her amulet to let it fall to the floor before returning to trace the scar.

She found her mind sluggish, her body flooding it with so many novel sensations and signals that she couldn't process it all. She licked her bow-shaped lips, buying herself time, as she struggled to answer. "I, ah, wasn't wearing steel plate armor at the time. I had a set of leather armor, light-weight, quiet when I moved, lots of pouches. I was wearing that armor when we cleared out the Forsworn and confronted Drascua. Her talon cut through it like it wasn't even there." She paused, feeling his fingers trace up and down the length of it, each time dipping a little further, pulling her neckline a little lower. "That's when I decided to study Restoration Magic, healing, specifically. Healing potions are all well and good, but magic doesn't leave behind any scars."

His fingers had been toying with her through the silk, feeling the tiny bud harden as his palm brushed against it, unable to help enjoying the fact that he could after years of self-imposed celibacy still affect a woman's body. He lifted his gaze up from her chest, his fingers following. They paused at her mouth while he continued upwards to her eyes. "Vanity and womanhood. You don't want any scars to show," he challenged, his fingers stroking the corner of her mouth, "Like this one here."

"Some scars I mind, aye, and would remove them if I found a way." Her lips brushed against his fingertips as she spoke, the sensation almost tickling. Her eyes held his as she took his hands and brought them around to her back. Standing before him, wrapping his arms around her body, she commanded him to touch her. "There are other scars I will never give up. These scars drive me. These scars define me. These scars remind me of my purpose, my goal. Until the Thalmor are gone from Skyrim, until the Thalmor are diminished, I will wear them with pride."

His hands were behind her, undoing the stays of her dress, trying not to get tangled in her tresses. He needed to feel those scars she spoke of so proudly. It was like a hunger, a thirst, a dearth of soul that demanded to be filled. To know, to learn, that another shared such pain as his, such unrelenting compulsion, chasing her to her doom as it chased him to his. His thick fingers fumbled with the laces until he growled in frustration and ripped the fabric.

Then his hands were there, touching her cool skin blanketed by her mane, absently noting that she didn't wear any sort of small clothes. He felt the random pattern of criss-crossed lines that covered her back. She had suffered at Thalmor hands, he knew that, but he hadn't truly understood to what extent. As he watched her tremble in his grip, he knew she was virginal. Not that she hadn't experienced the act, but she had never desired it for herself. Not until this night. Not until he touched her. Sadly it aroused him to see how much she wanted him to be the one to deflower her already plucked petals. He stared into the deep violet pools of her eyes, watching a ripple of current run across as his hands traced each and every scar.

Every man has his breaking point. He had been foolish in his youth to think he did not, but the Thalmor had taught him better. It had taken so long that time became meaningless, but he had broken. To his never-ending shame he had given the Thalmor the information they needed to take Imperial City. He escaped shortly afterwards, and tried to reclaim his honor, to fight bravely and distinguish himself, but the damage had been done. He gave secrets to the enemy, even though under duress, and that made him a traitor.

He pulled the fabric off her shoulders, letting it snag at her elbows and pool around her waist. She had been tortured, as well. The pain and humiliation she had endured he could not bring himself to imagine. Though her incarceration had only lasted three days, it had been enough to break her. He could see the shattered remains of the young Nord girl within the shell of Lady Gerhild, cool and detached, yet desperate to heal, desperate to progress, desperate to feel. And he had unknowingly provided the impetus to that which kept her alive and moving towards her goal—her hatred of the Thalmor.

His hatred of the Thalmor.

As his hands continued to stroke and caress, memorizing each and every blemish on her exposed torso, his lips descended onto hers, warm and strong against her unpracticed coolness. He thought of the things she could do, the power she was learning to control, and imagined a world where the Thalmor ran from her Thu'um. And she could do it, with a little guidance, guidance that he could give her. The Greybeards would never approve of it, believing the Way of the Voice should only be used to worship Kyne, the deity who gave man knowledge of the Thu'ums. Yet if that were true, then why did this Dragonborn appear at the same time as Alduin? No, her fate, her terrible doom, was tied with the reappearance of dragons. She would need to grow her power, to learn to use it, and he could use this need to bind her to him.

Then, after the dragons were defeated, together they could free Skyrim from the Empire and the mutually hated Thalmor. Perhaps before, if the opportunity arose. To do that, he would first have to gain her absolute trust and loyalty. And to that end, he would start with fulfilling her deepest, most secretive desires, the ones she was unable to admit even to herself.

She watched him as he kissed her, his lips moving against her mouth, much the same as Vorstag's had done all those months ago. She was ready this time, parting her lips, relaxing her jaw, hoping she was reacting correctly. She was rewarded when his tongue dove inside her mouth, exploring with a conquering force, claiming her for him alone. His eyes remained opened as did hers, each of them studying the other, learning, measuring, assessing, planning. She didn't know—didn't truly understand—where this was leading, but she was beginning to get the idea. He had stated himself unworthy of a woman's desire. She had knelt at his feet and professed her adoration. Now they stood before each other, opening to each other, hoping the other could fill the void that tainted their lonely lives.

Hesitantly, her hands extracted themselves from her sleeves and reached up to grip his shoulders.

He pulled back, holding her gaze, and his eyes asked the question, _'What do you want of me?'_ She thought she had known the answer, but she no longer knew the words to convey it. "I need… someone… to guide me…"

He moved her hands, guiding them with a touch at her wrists, to push the mantle from his shoulders. He had taken off his armor before supper, wishing to dine with Gerhild in a more gentlemanly fashion. When the knee-length cloak fell to the floor, he stood before her in his simple and serviceable woolen tunic and leather leggings. Again he guided her hands, his thumbs warm against her palms, as he brought her fingers to the belt at his waist.

"I cannot understand this destiny that opens before me," she continued to confess, unable to stop herself. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle for a moment as she struggled to unfasten it from the awkward angle. "It burns me, consumes me in icy flames, and I cannot escape it. I cannot find anyone who understands…"

"…who understands what it's like," he broke over her words, taking a deep breath once the belt fell away, "To speak a Thu'um. To open your mouth and call mastery over the Elements. To strike a blow that staggers your enemies without touch. To know what it means to be Dragonborn."

He felt her fingers grip and bunch the fabric of his tunic, and he stopped to allow her to lift the heavy cloth from his shoulders. Apprehension made a boiling knot in his guts, not knowing how she would respond to the ruined torso that was now revealed to her sharp eyes. Then he reminded himself, she sported her own scars; if she didn't feel revulsion over her own body, surely she wouldn't feel it over his.

"I had forgotten," she whispered, "Just how much we share. We both hate the Thalmor." She ran her fingers over his scars, starting with the thick one running down the center of his chest. He shuddered, allowing himself to feel vulnerable beneath her touch, thereby allowing her to feel empowered. "And we've both some mastery over the Thu'um." Her hands dipped lower, settling at the top of his leggings, thumbs dipping inside to brush against his heated skin and grip the fabric. "Yet I'm becoming something more, something beyond you." She closed her eyes, giving the trousers a little push to encourage them to fall to the floor. She sensed him step away for a moment, heard the stuttered steps and clumps of boots being kicked aside, but her main focus was turned inward.

"I can feel them. All three of them. Constantly. Restlessly moving and disquiet, never quite awake, never quite asleep. They know where they are, what is happening around me, and they are impotent to affect anything." She opened her eyes again, finding him kneeling before her, his hands at her waist and tearing her dress even more in his haste to remove it. "I have consumed the souls of dragons. When I kill them, I take that part of them that is their own true selves. I absorb them," she almost sobbed, her desperation for him—for anyone—to comprehend making her tremble. "I have become a monster, feeding on death. Even dragons do not deserve this entrapment, to remain forever within the soul of their enemy, not dead but no longer alive." She sunk her fingers into his hair, pulling his face upwards to meet hers. "And I desire more, because I've felt it. With each dragon I kill, with each soul I subsume, I grow more powerful, and the hunger for that power grows with it."

"Don't deny it," he growled, his voice husky with his own desperation. Gods but she was beautiful, even scarred and damaged, her posture and build was so like her mother's that it made his heart ache. He needed her, he needed her tonight, to possess her body and soul and power. "Don't deny your destiny. It's terrible, I know," he regained his feet, pulling her hands from his hair, flinching as they fell to his scars. "But you are strong and capable, Gerhild. You can do this. Believe me," he kissed her again, closing his eyes and cupping her neck, his other hand stroking the Hagraven's scar. "Trust me." His mouth moved across her skin, traveling from her lips to her neck, savoring her coolness pressed against his heat.

Gerhild let her head fall back, closing her eyes, intensifying the sensation of his warm, wet mouth as it fell to her collarbone. She had seen his scars, however reluctantly revealed, and knew what he had suffered. During her imprisonment, she had seen others held captive, other men and women tortured and broken beneath Thalmor hands. They thought it encouraged their prisoners to be talkative, if they were made to watch someone else being tortured, knowing they would be next. She brought her hands up between them, felt that wide scar marring the center of his chest, heard the staggered breath against the hollow of her throat, and she knew what had been done to him.

"Don't," she moaned as he had done, sensing him about to pull away. "Don't be ashamed of your scars. They mark you, aye, but you survived. That counts for something. That counts for a great deal. Because now you stand against the Thalmor, a finely honed sword that they forged. They created their own doom when they tortured you. Don't turn away from your destiny, either."

He pulled back, and her arms wrapped around his waist. He wasn't pulling away, however, merely wishing for a clear view of her face. "I won't," he vowed, his eyes flickering back and forth between hers, "If you'll stand beside me. If you'll face your destiny."

"Beside you, aye," she whispered into the guttering candlelight, "I could face Alduin himself with you beside me."

"I could teach you, Gerhild," he offered. His powerful muscles flexed as he lifted her from the floor and spun her towards the bed. It sat upon a dais in the center of the room, like his throne downstairs, raised above and removed from the rest of the world. She felt the edge of the mattress behind her knees, but he didn't let go. He leaned over her, bending her backwards across the blankets, and carried her beneath him as he crawled to the center of the mattress. "There is so much I could teach you, if you wish it."

She understood what he was saying, that he meant more than just Thu'ums, and she answered throatily, "I wish it."

He smiled to himself, knowing he would own her from this night forward.

Ulfric planned his conquest of her body carefully, remembering even after long years of celibacy just where to touch, and how light or hard to touch, to make a woman's body dance to his tune. Gerhild was a challenge, as cold and broken as she was, but he had never turned away from a challenge. As she slowly relaxed and learned how to respond to his touch, he felt himself grow hard. After so many years, to feel his body arouse with desire—with full, wanton lust—was almost painful. And the pain only heightened his passion.

She lay beneath him, his heavy body pinning her and shielding her at the same time. When he settled her on the mattress, her hair had gotten caught underneath her, and to keep her scalp from hurting she had to tilt her head back, exposing her throat. She was amazed, never having believed what Bothela said would happen, but the old hag had been right. Due to Ulfric's skilled and experienced hands, she felt her body grow warm. Her skin tightened and tingled wherever his course hands touched. When his lips descended and joined in, she felt her muscles arch and twist, trying to press that part of her body closer to him.

Then there was the strange heat, the tightness, the wet, that pooled below her belly. His hands worked their way slowly towards that place, and when he drew near, she trembled and thrust her hips upwards to meet him. Suddenly everything changed. "Gods…" she moaned, feeling the pleasant tightness had turned unpleasant when she realized that, no matter the desire or arousal she might feel, the end result would still be the same. Panic gripped her, controlling her body, making her grab at his shoulders to push him away.

He felt her shuddering beneath him, thinking her body was clay under his master artistry. With a finger he found the core of her being, discovering her already prepared and hungry to be possessed by him. When she moaned right after his trespass, he lost the desire much less the ability to hold himself back any longer. He didn't even notice her shoving him as he moved up, took aim, and encased his lust within hers. The sheer ecstasy overwhelmed him and he moaned, "Maeganna!"

She sobbed, the physical pain too much to bear silently. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she tried to buck him off, only succeeding in allowing him deeper access. She heard him moan, and knew he was too far gone to heed her. On some part she heard her mother's name, but didn't register it, beyond control of herself. Unable to throw his weight off of her, unable to stop his instinctual motion, she threw a punch to his face.

He felt the blow, but it was diminished since she didn't have much room to maneuver. The Silver-Blood ring on her finger, however, was hard enough to cut his cheek. He growled, feeling the blood drip out of his skin, and grabbed her wrists. She struggled, her body stronger than most women, but nowhere near a match for his own. He dominated her like an alpha wolf dominating his mate, holding her hostage to his need, until he finally felt sated.

His release was almost painful, a growl escaping his lips as sweat broke out over his body. He collapsed onto her, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, wishing only for a quiet moment to recover. She didn't give him the chance, wiggling and trying to squirm away, whimpering with what he mistook for unsatisfied lust. He was glad he had her wrists in his grip, giving him some measure of control over her, or else she might have injured what was now overly sensitive. Yet her struggles worked quickly to revive him, thinking that she was trying for dominance, finding the challenge stimulating. He reached over and claimed her mouth with his, his eyes widening with surprise.

Gerhild had had enough. She was in pain, uncomfortable, and belatedly remembered Vorstag's words, that intimacy with the right person meant that he would stop if something didn't feel right. Ulfric hadn't stopped; he had kept on moving despite her attempts to push him away. He was too powerful for her physically, but there was one area where she knew she was at least a match for him, if not more powerful. She opened her mouth, drew back her shoulders, and prepared to Shout. Just as she exhaled he moved to kiss her, his open mouth covering hers, and swallowed her Thu'um. It was no where near its full strength, unable to be Voiced, but he must have felt something of it, bursting into his mouth and down his throat to rattle within his chest. She saw his eyes widen, then narrow with anger, before he pulled up from her.

"You'd use the power of your Thu'um against your Jarl?" he growled dangerously low. "I don't mind your being athletic, but I will not tolerate your Shouting your passion and bringing the palace down around our heads. You need to learn more control than that. If not, I'll have to gag you."

She was shocked as she puzzled through his words, trying to fully understand what had just happened. He had thought her attempts to dislodge him was her being athletic. He had no idea, no glimmer of a clue, that he had hurt her. An angry and bitter tear slipped from the corner of one eye as she realized the trap she was in, partially made by her own hands. She needed to escape, to get away from him, but any physical attempt would only make matters worse. And any attempt at Shouting would find her gagged, maybe even bound. She couldn't have that, couldn't let herself feel restraints on her again. His hands holding her were bad enough. "No…"

He took that to mean she wouldn't Shout at him. He bent down and began touching her again, starting over, though this time her body remained cold and resisting. He didn't seem to mind, deciding her struggles were positive response enough. Feeling him harden against her, the anger and frustration welled up inside until she snarled at him. "Gods damn you!"

Ulfric lifted his gaze to her, his eyes glazed over with lust, as he agreed, "Gods damn us both!"

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Numbly she sat on the edge of the bed, too lost and cold to feel anything. Her eyes stared at the far wall, but she didn't see the shelves overflowing with books. She didn't see anything, her sight turned inward and backward in time.

He had taken her three times in total; each time she felt a little more of herself die, a little more of her motives and goals being questioned. After all, did it matter if he had called Maeganna's name? Did it matter whom she practiced with, as long as she got her body used to the act? Did it matter she had been unwilling, if she truly didn't feel anything?

Hadn't she knelt at his feet? Hadn't she begged for his help? What right did she have to refuse him, when he finally gave in? He hadn't wanted to, insecure about his own scars, but she had encouraged him. She had brought this on herself.

The third time, the last time, was what left her the most confused. He had her laying prostrate on the bed, her face half-suffocating in the pillows, her arms pulled up behind her back. As his rhythm increased, one of his hands had slipped between her and the bed, finding that patch of hair, and delving into its secrets. She couldn't explain it, how it had happened, but her body finally started to respond again. Her struggles changed from pulling away to pressing in to his touch. And when it hit her, when the passion engulfed her, she was completely unable to prevent it. She felt her sense of being, her essence, tighten and compress into a tiny point. Then she burst apart, her body spasming out of control, her gasps swallowed by the pillows. She passed out—she must have—the next time she was aware of her surroundings, Ulfric was off of her, lying on his back on the other side of the bed, his eyes closed in a satisfied repose.

What did that mean? She looked over her shoulder, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scarred skin glistening with sweat. She had enjoyed that last time, knowing enough thanks to Bothela's tutoring to understand what her body had experienced. It had taken the abuse, the passion fueled by anger, before she could find any sort of pleasure. Perhaps that was the best that she could hope for, damaged and broken as she was, ruined by Thalmor hands. Intimacy from a kind and gentle man was beyond her reach, but she could find something akin to it through the hands of her dominating Jarl.

At least he didn't mind the coldness within her heart. Or the anger. Or the pain.

She stood up, stretching to work the soreness from her muscles. She was bruised, and perhaps in one or two places her skin had been rubbed raw. She ignored these for now, intent on covering her nakedness, feeling suddenly exposed and ugly. She picked up her dress and nearly dropped it in defeat, the fabric ripped beyond wearable, one sleeve dangling by only a few threads. She bunched and rolled it up into a ball, set it on the table, and walked over to his wardrobe.

"I don't mind the fight you put up," his rumbling voice floated to her, almost sending a shiver down her spine, "But the bruises and cuts might be hard to explain."

She pulled out one of his robes, tying the belt around her waist, looking very much like a little girl in the oversized garment. Then she turned to face him, finding him watching her through slitted eyes, his body not having moved since she left the bed. With her attention on him, he shifted to sit up, completely comfortable now displaying his whole body for her, scars and all.

"What are you doing?" he gestured at his robe hanging on her.

"I cannot wear my dress back to my chambers," she answered, walking back to the table that held the tattered gown to pick it up. "I need to borrow one of your robes, unless you'd rather I walked through the palace naked."

He gave a small snort and waved permission for her to take it. "Just see to it that you return it before morning. It wouldn't do to have the servants know you were in here." He touched gingerly at his cheek, pulling his fingertips away with half-dried blood. "By the Nine, you are a passionate bedmate. I don't know how often I'll be able to handle you."

She didn't answer, not knowing what to say if anything. She did shift her bundle to one arm and raise her hand. At his questioning look, she silently recited the spell, her lips moving with concentration. The golden ribbons of magic rested in her palm. He pulled back in disgust, remembering how the Thalmor tortured him then used just enough magic to keep him alive, but not healed. Yet she waited for his nod of acceptance before she tipped her hand and let the healing magic restore his body. He sighed, easing back against the pillows, feeling the bruises and cuts mend. "If you continue to do that, I don't think I would mind having you here every night."

He caught her hand before she could pull away, his eyes lazy with sleep. "By the way, I trust you to take the appropriate steps. The last thing I need right now is a bastard heir, even if it comes from the Dragonborn."

She inclined her head, but he had already closed his eyes to yawn. She didn't disturb him any longer, leaving him to his sleep. Taking her bundle and wearing the borrowed robe, she stepped daintily out into the hallway.

The corridor was deserted this time of night, the only movement from the patrolling guard who luckily was at the far end of the corridor and turning away. She shut the door softly behind her and flitted towards her room like a ghost, absently reciting the spell and healing herself as she walked.

Vorstag stumbled on the last step, reaching the landing with only a little difficulty. He blinked, twisted his head to get his bearings, and started for his room. He and Ralof had stayed up half the night it seemed, drinking and sharing stories. He was a good man, Vorstag thought to himself, nodding. Quickly he stopped and reached for the wall, deciding that nodding and walking didn't mix. After the hallway stopped spinning, he pushed himself off and continued to his room.

Coming around a corner, he saw a ghost just ahead of him, glowing golden in the dim light. He blinked, disbelieving, but the vision remained, floating ahead of him on silent feet. He watched as it finished glowing, solidifying into Gerhild, before entering her room.

He shook his head again, and again chastised himself for doing that. What if it had been Gerhild? So she had been walking down the corridor in the middle of the night, using magic to heal dark bruises on her wrists, a bundle of cloth that reminded him of her dress gripped tightly to her chest. It didn't mean anything, surely, other than… other than…

He blinked, trying to get his bearings again. Her room was there, his room a few doors beyond it. Back the other way, he turned his head slowly, and found the only door to belong to Jarl Ulfric.

Fuck it, he thought to himself. What does it matter? It didn't. She was a grown woman. She had her own mind, her own life, and didn't need to do what he wanted. Nor would she ever submit to another man. Nope, she was Dragonborn. She could do what she damn well pleased, with whomever she damn well pleased. He lurched away from the corner and headed towards his own room, remembering spying a pitcher of something sitting on a side table. Maybe it held mead or wine or anything to take the edge off the pain.

All that groundwork he laid, all those nights he spent holding her within his arms, getting her used to the idea that someone could care for her—it was all for nothing. When she was finally ready for it, she went to another man, not him. He was in his room now, his vision tunneling, focused only on that pitcher. He brought it to his lips, not even bothering with a glass, and took three healthy swallows before he spit it out and threw the vessel of water across the room.

Fuck it. Fuck her, he thought, and then realized that someone already did. He felt his knees give out from beneath him, and luckily fell onto a chair. Weakly he turned his head to see the dented metal pitcher lying by the hearth, the water puddling to be evaporated by the heat. With a sigh he closed his eyes and settled his head on his arms.

**A/N: yup, basically date rape. Pure and simple and ugly. A mind-fuck that, after I slapped myself up the backside of my head, I realized I couldn't post. Still have qualms about posting it now, but things like this happen, and—hey!—it's not right.**

**Pardon me while I get preachy, but if that happened to you, or someone you know, get help. A person (male or female) doesn't ask for this to happen, or bring it onto themselves. A person does not get "damaged" so badly, like Gerhild tried to make herself believe, that the only way they can feel love is dysfunctional love, or brutal sex, or whatever. And, yes, coming during such an experience can happen, but it doesn't mean jack shit! Your body does stuff sometimes you can't control. So, you could say the only reason I ever considered posting this scene, is in case someone out there needs to hear this.**


	3. Chapter 3

**No One Escapes Cidhna Mine… Unscathed**

**Part One**

**A/N: sorry this took so long, but though I had it in my head what happened, I never put it down in writing. And, of course, writing Ogmund again made me want to tear up D': So it took a little longer than anticipated, but this is what happened in Vorstag's young adulthood, when he and Hamming were arrested and sentenced to a year in the mine.**

**Warning: this does contain references to underage rape/non-con. Please do not read if you are uncomfortable with such subject matter. I left the description of the acts vague, but not the emotional repercussions, so consider yourself warned.**

The two young men stood in front of the Jarl… in a manner of speaking. They were in front of the throne at least, but propped up by the guards rather than their own two feet. Their wrists were crossed and bound in front of them, their clothing torn and bloodied from their fight. The older sported a large bruise on the side of his jaw, the younger had one eye starting to swell. Both had bloody lips and bruised knuckles.

Vorstag's ears were ringing, as he stupidly blinked his one good eye and tried to make sense of what was happening. One moment, he and his best friend, Hamming, were enjoying a few drinks in the Silver-Blood Inn. Then… things went fuzzy. He remembered… he remembered…

Well, there was a fight, that much he remembered, even if he couldn't remember what it had been about. They were outside by that point, pummeling each other, falling into the river…

"Nipple twister," Hamming whispered under his breath. "That has to be the lamest name calling yet."

Aye, Vorstag remembered that happening; he still had the bruise to prove it. He brought his bound hands up to rub at his chest. He had called Hamming that, just as his fist connected with Hamming's jaw and sent him crashing into… something. "Shut up."

"Both of you, shut up!" a guard behind them barked, smacking the backs of their heads. Vorstag winced, the ringing in his ears intensifying, and Hamming gave off a soft groan.

The Jarl started talking again, but neither one could make any sense of it. "For your wanton destruction of private property, the Hold fines you three thousand septims. Each. Plus damages to the, what was it again?"

"Market stall," a guard supplied. "During their fight, they crashed into a market stall and shattered it, destroyed merchandise, disturbed the peace…"

"Right, right," Jarl Igmund waved the rest of the charges aside. "As well as the fines, you are each to serve a year long sentence in Cidhna Mine. I hope this sobers you, young men. Drunken fighting will not be tolerated in my city! Take them directly to the mine."

"Yes, my Jarl," one of the guards banged his chest in salute.

Vorstag felt his world spin as he was forcibly turned around before being marched out of Understone Keep. He blinked, his one good eye tearing up, as they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

"That hurts."

"Take a good look," another one of the guards said, "You won't be seeing the sun again for a good, long time."

They stumbled down the staired streets of Markarth, down a lot of stairs in Vorstag's opinion, the guards speaking threats and hinting at the difficult year ahead of them. Both Vorstag and Hamming were oblivious to the seriousness of their situation, either too drunk still from last night, or too cocky from their youthfulness to be made to care.

"It's only a year," Hamming shrugged. "Not like we're going to be hardened criminals after this. Besides, a little hint of a dangerous past will really help us pick up the ladies."

Vorstag sniggered, his ribs twinging with the movement and turning the sound into a wince.

"Neither of you are sobered up yet, are you?" their escort asked.

"Nope," Hamming answered, "Unless there really are two of you…?"

Vorstag outright laughed that time. Not that he could say what was funny, but he laughed anyway, his one good eye tearing up again, from pain this time instead of the brightness.

Two people were standing near the path to the mine, a man and a woman, his hands around her shoulders. They were being pushed back by another guard, the woman wringing her hands and pleading, "Please, just for a moment, let me see my son!"

Hamming groaned, recognizing the voice. "Gods, it's my mother! Please, guards, get me in prison before she gets her hands on me. It'll be a mercy!"

He seemed genuine, truly wishing to avoid seeing his mother, so naturally the guards stopped and allowed Hamming's parents a few moments to speak with him. Vorstag shook his head disbelievingly. Hamming seemed to have a way with people, always talking himself out of something, or into something, depending on his mood. Too bad it hadn't worked earlier with the guards after the fight.

No, wait, Hamming had been out cold when the guards finally got to them, because Hamming had gotten a handful of Vorstag's chest and twisted, which hurt, and Vorstag's fist had connected with his jaw, which knocked him out.

"Do you mind if I speak with the other boy?"

Vorstag recognized that voice. His cheeks burned with shame as he turned to see Ogmund. The old skald was like an uncle to him, especially after his parents died from fever last winter. Vorstag had been trying to live his life on his own, but Ogmund had been watching over him the whole time. Until last night, when Vorstag and Hamming had ignored his advice to stop drinking and call it a night. The last of his comfortable, alcohol-induced buzz dried up under the heat of his embarrassment.

"Well," Ogmund said, standing nearby, looking over at Hamming being kissed to death by his mother.

Vorstag couldn't answer, feeling even more ashamed when he didn't scold or rant or fuss. Three times he tried to say something, but his mouth opened up on empty words, so he just closed it again.

Ogmund didn't speak either, simply stood at his side as they waited for Hamming's parents to get done with him. When it looked like the mother might finally let go, he slapped his hand on Vorstag's shoulder. "I'll be here, for when you get out."

Right then, Vorstag didn't feel like he deserved such a loyal friend, but he lifted his chin and said, "It's only a year. It'll be over before you know it." He fell into step beside Hamming then, the two boys a little more sober as the guards marched them through the entrance of Cidhna Mine.

"Aye, it'll seem like that for me, lad," Ogmund sighed, "But for you, it'll be the longest year of your life."

Hamming's parents came up beside him, the mother sobbing into her hands, the father looking solemnly at his son's back.

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Vorstag appreciated the darker interior of the mine. His eyes were still stinging from the sunlight, and the swelling, so a little cool darkness was a welcomed relief. They were told to stop before a female Orc, who menacingly drew a dagger out of her belt and cut the bindings on their wrists.

She didn't say much, just handed them each a set of rough spun clothing and spoke one word, "Strip."

"What?" Hamming asked, holding the course and scratchy fabric in his hands.

"Strip!" one of the guards still escorting them repeated, smacking the back of his head for good measure. Vorstag started fumbling at his belt, before the guard decided to hit him, too. Hamming was a little braver, turning to glare at the man. He paused just long enough to be a hair short of insubordinate, before he slowly and deliberately pulled his tunic off over his head.

"You want a show?" he taunted, arms spread, turning on the spot so everyone could get a look at him.

When his back was to the Orc, she drew her mace and jabbed with the hilt, connecting with his kidneys. Hamming let out an oaf of breath, falling to his knees, his tunic still clutched in one hand. He knelt there, coughing for several moments before he could lift his face up. Vorstag stared at him, Hamming's skin bright red from his neck to his scalp, and gave his head a little shake, silently begging him not to push the guards again.

Hamming smiled back, as well as he could around his bruised jaw. He glanced over his shoulder, to where she was standing with her mace poised for another blow, this time aiming with the business end. He winked at her and cheekily said, "You like it rough."

It took several seconds for his meaning to sink in for the guards. One of them finally took a step forward, ready to beat him for his insolence, when the Orc started laughing. It was a hearty laugh, close to one of those contagious type of laughs, but Vorstag was finding it hard to see anything funny about their situation. The reality was beginning to settle in for him, as he worked on undoing the lacings of his boots.

"I like you, kid," she said to Hamming. "Try to keep that attitude for as long as you can. This place is going to eat you alive, but that humor of yours just might help you survive. Now, strip, or I'll have the guards rip your clothes off you and you can go into the mine naked."

Hamming inclined his head, a mocking sort of gesture, but pushed himself to his feet and began unfastening his belt. Vorstag kept his head down, feeling very awkward as he finished exchanging his clothing for the prisoner's garb. For a second time he was thankful for the darkness, helping to preserve some of his… dignity.

He wasn't proud of his physique. He had the height of a Nord, but for some stupid reason, his body decided to grow tall so fast that the thickness couldn't keep up. It left him gangly, long limbed and skinny. Not at all like Hamming who was not only tall, but broad shouldered, thick necked, and developing muscles in his arms and legs. Vorstag never considered the fact that Hamming was a year older than him, and had been nearly as skinny a year ago. No, he only compared them as they were now, today, Vorstag in ill-fitting, rough spun clothing that hung on him more like a gown than a tunic, and Hamming proudly puffing out his chest and displaying his growing pectorals for all to admire.

After their clothing was exchanged, one of the guards took out a key and unlocked the first of two doors. The Orc strode through, motioning the boys to follow her. Once the door behind them was locked, she took out another key and unlocked the farther door, this time motioning them to precede her. She didn't follow, closing the door behind them with a clang and jingling the keys loudly as she locked it.

If Orcs could smile, she did so now, or whatever passed for smiling for an Orc. "You'll find pickaxes all around the mine," she started explaining. "Not hard to figure out how to use them, even for a smart ass like you. You wanna eat? Make your quota. Other than that," she started turning away, "The prisoners pretty much govern themselves. I've got nothing more to do with you, until your sentence is up!"

Shoulder-to-shoulder, Vorstag and Hamming watched her walk out that first door and disappear.

"Charming woman," Hamming muttered. "I think she's got a crush on me."

It was pure bravado again, but it was something they both needed. The buzz from all the alcohol was gone, replaced by a bone-deep chill that wasn't due to the threadbare clothing or cold stone tunnels. They turned away from the door and started to make their way down the tunnels, looking for the promised pickaxes.

A few hours later, the chill had been replaced by a fine sheen of sweat, both young men chipping faithfully away at a vein of silver, breaking off nuggets to put in the buckets. A voice called out suddenly, and a chunk of silver ore barely missed careening into Vorstag's head. He gave a startled cry, his one good eye a little wide as he looked up to the scaffolding above them.

A woman stood there, wearing clothing little better than theirs, with her own pickaxe and bucket. However, she was as far removed from them as the sun. Those who worked on the scaffolding were miners. They not only got to leave every night, but received wages for the ore they mined. This one was older than the two, with light brown hair and a kind smile.

"Sorry," she called down to them. "It didn't hit either one of you, did it?"

"Nope," answered Hamming, always ready and able to talk with the ladies. "You'll need to work on your aim."

She laughed a little, and Vorstag watched her smile deepen. "Don't suppose you could toss that back up to me?"

"Oh! Ah… sure, I guess," muttered Vorstag, finally dropping his gaze and casting around for the ore turned missile. He found it, and made to lob it gently underhanded, but as his hand swung back, he found his wrist encased within a vice.

He gave a small cry, tearing Hamming's attention away from the woman. His friend was now staring over his shoulder, his eyes wide before he quickly schooled his features. The ore slipped from Vorstag's nerveless fingers as he tried to twist around and see who had a hold of him.

It was another Orc, meaner looking than the woman who had met them upon their arrival. This Orc was bigger, male, and wore face paint that resembled a skull, distracting their eyes and clouding his features. He still held Vorstag's wrist, bending it close enough to breaking, the young man wiggling trying to find a way to ease the pressure.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" he breathed into Vorstag's face, a foul stench accompanying the words.

"I… ah…" was as far as he got, the Orc apparently not expecting him to answer.

"She's a miner," he continued, barreling over any excuses or explanations he might have been able to think up. "She gets money for what she mines. Money that pays for a home and clothing and good food. We don't get that. We're prisoners. We work for our food! If she drops a chunk down to us, she just gets paid a little less at the end of the week. If we don't make our quota, we don't eat." He leaned in even closer, making Vorstag think it might not be so bad to break his wrist if he could only get a breath of fresh air. "Understood?"

He nodded, words fleeing from his mind, leaving his mouth dry and barren.

"Aye, we understand," Hamming said, stepping forward at last. Damn it, where had he been this whole time, Vorstag wondered. "What falls down here, is ours. What falls up there," he glanced up, "Is theirs."

The Orc pulled his bloodshot eyes from Vorstag to stare at Hamming, completely missing the humor—or ignoring it, which was probably more likely. "Get back to work." He let go of Vorstag's wrist and stalked away.

Vorstag let loose the breath he had been holding, nearly falling to his knees without the Orc's pressure on his wrist holding him up. Hamming caught him, one hand to his chest and the other on his shoulder, as he watched until the Orc was out of sight. "Shit…"

"No fucking kidding," Vorstag agreed. He finished gulping air back into his lungs, and reached down to pick up the ore again. He looked up at the scaffolding, but the woman was gone. Probably just as well, as he didn't think he could do the honorable thing and give it back to her. Numbly he leaned over to their bucket and added the chunk to theirs.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of the work day, both Hamming and Vorstag were back in exuberant spirits, the frightful Orc put out of their minds and their buckets heavy with ore. Even the dismal sight of the food couldn't dampen their cheekiness, Hamming joking about using the maggots as fishing bait. They sat and ate a little aloof from the other prisoners, no one bothering to approach them or attempt to make friends. Neither one noticed the looks given them by some of the others, dark, hungry looks that should have raised their hackles. Instead they finished their meal and walked off with the others, looking for a place to sleep.

Most of the good spots were taken, good being anything with a bit of loose dirt to soften the expanse of jagged rock and hard stone. They wandered a bit, were chased out of a few places, and finally found a small, quiet nook out of the way of anyone else. Not long afterwards, the Orc woman went walking over the scaffolding, putting out the torches and beginning the 'night.'

Their first night in Cidhna Mine would prove to be one of the longest nights in their short lives.

Vorstag had managed to be asleep when it started—he never asked Hamming if he had been asleep, too. They came at the two boys despite the pitch blackness in the tunnels, seeing or somehow being able to make their way without sight. He woke when his bruised wrist was leveraged behind his back.

A soft cry escaped his chest, more a protest than anything fearful. The fear didn't start right away, his brain too fuzzy from having dozed off, and his body too exhausted from the long day of work and still sore and battered from the fight. When his wrist was grabbed, he protested. When a rag was stuffed into his mouth, he grunted in confusion. When his leggings were pulled down to his knees, he began to struggle in earnest.

By then it was too late, his unknown assailants having the upper hand, literally. He tried to fight, to buck and dislodge and twist and escape, but there was nothing he could do to end it. And listening to Hamming's grunts and groans from off to the side, he was suffering the same fate.

It had never been in him to just give up. Even when hot breath whispered advice, to hold still and relax and it wouldn't hurt so much, he couldn't stop struggling. Even when he felt the pain and the blood—and worse… Even when he felt tears burn his eyes… Even when one man finished and made room for the next…

He fought, weakly flailing one hand, trying to find something—anything!—to use against his abusers. He broke nails on unyielding stone, unable to scrape up the smallest chip of rock.

Time lost meaning in the absence of light. Sound, too, became absurd, the slap of sweaty skin or the echoed moans slurring together as if they would form a different language. Even the sense of touch betrayed him, everything escalating into pain and burning and bleeding and agony.

Vorstag didn't bother to count the number of his assailants. He barely noticed when they left, letting go of his wrist and fading into the black like a nightmare. He rolled onto his side, trying to ease his arm back to his front without finishing dislocating it. He laid there, his cheek pressed against the cold stones, his mouth parted and panting, until he could feel his hand again.

Slowly, cautiously, he managed to pull his leggings back up, wincing at the soreness, ignoring the mess. When he'd managed to secure what little dignity he could find within his prisoner's rags, he headed towards the only other sound nearby.

It was Hamming, sobbing. He didn't say anything, neither one could have found the words. Instead Vorstag straightened his friend's clothing as best he could considering he refused to move. The two spent the rest of the night in a jumble of limbs and bruises.

When 'morning' came, it found the two, still piled and curled like a pair of puppies huddled together for warmth and comfort. They woke with the light and the sounds of the other prisoners beginning to move about. Vorstag sat up, winced at the soreness and rolled onto his knees, gasped at the rawness there and finally decided standing would hurt the least. He heard Hamming encounter similar issues, but he didn't think about it. He didn't want to think about anything. There was a bucket for waste off to the side, and he limped over and promptly used it.

By the time he was finished, Hamming was there, holding out his hand to help him to his feet. He couldn't look up at him, so he never saw how Hamming also avoided his eyes, both of them unable to glance any higher than the other's chest.

The day passed much the same as the first day, only the boys were quiet, their bravado and innocence destroyed, crushed under the heels of those hungry men.

And the second night was spent in tense anticipation.

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Hamming wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth. It was from a cut on the inside of his cheek, nothing too serious, but he didn't want Vorstag to see. He always got upset, seeing the blood, and Hamming would do his best to hide or minimize the gore and winces and limps. He had to stay strong—for his best friend's sake.

He had made a deal with their assailants. He had begged them, offered to do double the duty, just so they would leave Vorstag alone. It hadn't quite worked out the way he wanted, as both young men were still being abused, but there were fewer that Vorstag was forced to handle before they were through with him.

Hamming knew he handled twice as many, as the group finished with them at about the same time. He leaned to the side and spit out the last of the filth he hadn't swallowed. His cheeks and neck always sported bruises the morning after, but he didn't think Vorstag ever noticed—neither one could look the other in the eye anymore.

The men didn't come for them every night, perhaps every third or fourth night. He and Vorstag would passively endure the darkness, waiting in tense silence until either the men came, or enough time had passed that they could be reasonably sure they would be left alone. Those precious, peaceful nights they would lay together, Hamming spooned to his back, too desperate for comfort and too drowned in misery to care how it might look. No one would see it, anyway.

And how could they tell anyone about this, and not feel ashamed?

Vorstag was crying. Hamming knew it, because this was when he usually cried, silently, without a snuffle of movement, the hot tears simply draining from his eyes. It had taken nearly three months for the fight to get beaten out of him, but it had happened—Vorstag had given up trying to defy their abusers. That's when Hamming broke. That's when he bartered what little he could, just to give Vorstag some relief. Hamming didn't know if he realized there were less men using him, or strange sounds coming from where Hamming was being used, and neither was he going to ask.

That, at least, was one thing he didn't regret about this whole fucking mess.

Hamming moved across the ground, one hand reaching out through the darkness, unable to see but able to feel, to seek the warmth coming off the other body. He found Vorstag's shoulder, and pulled their battered bodies together. He'd get them through this, because it had all been his fault. He had talked Vorstag into going to the tavern that night. He had urged him to ignore Ogmund's advice and keep drinking. He had started the name-calling contest that had gotten them kicked out into the street.

His own tears fell into Vorstag's filthy, stringy hair in front of him. His arms tightened, and Vorstag's hands gripped him in answer. Aye, they'd get through this together. And he swore before the Nine that he'd never touch another drop of alcohol so long as he lived.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the head before him, his lips brushing the lanky strands. The words were no more than an exhale of breath, a timid sigh lost within the expanse of caverns and tunnels, a movement of lips and the soft smack of spittle. If Vorstag heard him, if he understood, he gave no sign. Not that Hamming wanted forgiveness, not yet, not until he fixed this, not until it was over. And he'd find a way. In the morning he'd find a way to stop this from recurring over and over again. There had to be an answer, someone or something that could help them, and tomorrow he would find that answer.

For Vorstag's sake.

It was colder that morning. Even winter found a way to penetrate the layers of earth and rock to reach the mine shafts. Hamming woke with the first glimmer of the torches being lit, and slowly pulled his arms away from Vorstag. It was the lack of body heat along his back that woke him, making him start awake, making him wince with the lingering aches and bruises. No other type of protest was made, however, and he pushed himself to his feet to follow Hamming to get some food.

After the listless meal, Vorstag stood to collect a pickaxe and bucket and start mining. He went a total of seven paces before he realized Hamming wasn't beside him. He retraced his steps to find him still sitting, sitting and staring at his half-eaten bowl of gruel. "Hamming…?"

He shouldn't have spoken. He shouldn't have returned to his side. Hamming lifted his face up to him, and for the first time in months they truly saw each other. Vorstag stared at the swollen and abused lips, the marks of fingers on his jaw and neck, the dark desperation in his eyes. And he knew—he let himself think about the strange sounds he had been hearing lately during those nights—and he knew what they had been doing to Hamming, and not to him.

Hamming stared at the drawn features above him, the eyes that had always sparkled with good natured humor now dull with exhaustion, the thin lips that were so prone to laughter now sagging with defeat. And he knew Vorstag knew what he had done. "I've got something to do today," he muttered, dropping his gaze down and away from his oldest friend. "Go start working; I'll catch up."

Fear gripped Vorstag's heart. Hearing the defeat, the desperation in Hamming's voice, filled him with a squirming, oily pool of anxiety in his bowels. "You're not…" he found, even after all they'd been through, that he couldn't give voice to that last resort, lest that was what Hamming was considering. Instead, his voice trembling with strength born of despair, he begged, "Don't leave me alone."

That was precisely what Hamming was considering, though not the manner Vorstag feared. He pushed himself wearily to his feet, feeling Vorstag's eyes on him, devouring him as if this would be the last time they'd see each other. But he couldn't look him in the eye, no matter what he was contemplating. "I won't," he lied. "I'm just gonna do a little exploring today. Maybe…" he had to pause and swallow the lump trying to choke his throat. "Maybe I can find a corner or a crevice, someplace where we can hide during the nights. I'll be back. Trust me."

He had to, Vorstag just had to trust Hamming, there was no one else he could trust. "Aye, alright, I'll bring your bucket with mine, maybe get some ore in it, too, just so you're not that far behind when you come back."

Hamming nodded, slapped his hand on Vorstag's shoulder, and turned away.

He knew where he had to go. There were two kinds of prisoners in Cidhna Mine: Forsworn, and those who kept their heads down. He and Vorstag had tried to remain in the second group, both being Nords and not wanting to get involved, but after all this time…

He finished walking and arrived in front of the big Orc brute, the same one who nearly broke Vorstag's wrist that first day. Hamming looked up at the gruesome face paint and tried not to show his fear. It was getting easier, the layers of protective numbness he'd built up after all those nights serving to keep his other emotions hidden. He didn't even bat an eye as he said calmly, "I want to join."

**A/N: yes, I know, a cliffhanger. Don't let your loincloth get twisted into a knot; the second part will be out in a day or two.**


	4. Chapter 4

**No One Escapes Cidhna Mine… Unscathed**

**Part Two**

**A/N: as promised…**

"You want to join?" The Orc made a sound, like an amused sort of scoff. "And why is that? You think you got something to offer?" He stepped forward menacingly, dropping his crossed arms and looming over the younger man. "I know all I need to about you and your friend, the amusement you provide some of the other prisoners. I can assure you: the King in Rags doesn't like boys."

The words stung, making it sound like Hamming and Vorstag ever had a choice. He kept that layer of numbness thick as he tried to negotiate. "I've got skills," he stated, finding it easiest to stare at the green-skinned shoulder. "I can fight with a sword."

The Orc laughed, "Like there are a lot of swords down here for you to use."

"And I'm strong," he continued, undaunted, "I can do manual labor. Whatever you need done. And I'm quick thinking, and can talk my way out of trouble."

"Uh-huh," he grunted, but stepped back to the wall beside the doorway he guarded. "What's the catch?"

Hamming swallowed. He knew he had next to nothing to bargain with, and should expect only as much in return, but he was hoping for mercy. "Protection for my friend. That's all I ask, just for him."

The Orc looked at him with narrowed eyes, considering his words. He caught the implied meaning, that Hamming didn't care what happened to him as long as Vorstag was no longer visited at night. Madanach could see to it that the boy was left alone, both boys even—if he cared enough. Problem was, neither boy had anything to offer to make him care enough.

Still, he had been instructed what to do, if the boys ever asked for a chance. Madanach didn't mind having Nords in the Forsworn, as long as they knew their place—beneath the heel of his boot—-but these two boys were worthless. "You think yourself resourceful, huh? Fine. There's another prisoner in here, a Breton by the name of Doogan. He has something he was supposed to bring to Madanach, but he claims he misplaced it. Find him, find the bottle he was supposed to smuggle into the mine, and Madanach will consider," he leaned forward again, shoving his tusks into Hamming's face, "Consider letting you into the Forsworn. After that, we'll see about your friend."

It was a rotten deal, with no guarantee for him or Vorstag, but it was the only deal he could make. "Doogan. Bottle. Got it."

Hamming couldn't get out of there fast enough, but he made himself walk slowly away, knowing that showing fear would not be a good thing. His heart was racing, however, pounding so loudly he was sure the sound echoed up and down the tunnels. Fuck, he thought to himself, wondering what in Oblivion it was that this Doogan was supposed to smuggle into the mine, and then wondering how. Every prisoner had to strip and change clothing before they entered. Maybe he bribed the mercenaries guarding the mine to let him take something with him? Maybe he bribed one of the miners to bring it in and 'accidentally' drop it from the scaffolding when no one was looking?

He snapped himself out of his musings. It didn't matter how the fuck Doogan did it, only that he had the damned bottle in his possession. Hamming wanted it, wanted to get it with the least amount of fuss, and tried to form some sort of plan.

It turned out to be so much easier, and so much harder than anticipated. He knew of Doogan, though he'd never talked with or spent time with the Breton. It was fairly easy to come across him; Hamming had been there long enough to know everyone's habits. Doogan was a loner, almost as if he knew he was being singled out and targeted and figured his chances would be better if there weren't any people around him. It made it easy for Hamming to find him, alone in a side tunnel, one eye on the entrance.

Hamming walked past, trying not to stare, to just glance and get an idea of the way the tunnel curved, of how much could be seen from the entrance, and how little, and how far down Doogan stood, working on an ore vein, pickaxe at the ready. He continued on a few steps, made sure the torches didn't cast his shadow on the ground in front of the opening, and counted under his breath.

After he reached ten, he heard the pickaxe strike the stone.

After he reached fifteen, it struck again, and again at seventeen, and again at twenty one. The strikes were erratic, giving him the suspicion that Doogan was watching the entrance more than his work. So he waited longer, waited until the strikes settled into a steadier rhythm, waited until he heard the Breton mutter under his breath.

Waited until a chunk of ore fell to the ground, and Doogan paused to pick it up, grunting as he dropped it in his bucket.

Hamming tore around the entrance and raced down the tunnel, three long and powerful lunges, before he reached Doogan. He tackled the unsuspecting man and they tumbled and rolled further back into the tunnel, around a corner and out of sight of the opening. After their bodies came to a stop, Hamming recovered first and scrambled across the ground towards him. He wrapped his legs around Doogan's torso and an arm around his neck, locking it tight, keeping pressure on his windpipe and arteries.

"Where's the bottle?" Hamming's voice was grating under the force of anger and adrenaline and fear.

"What…" Doogan managed to sputter coherently, but if there were any words after that, they were lost behind spittle and gasps.

"The bottle," Hamming repeated, managing to get his voice under control, "The one you smuggled it in. Where is it?"

Doogan continued to make small, desperate noises as his windpipe compressed beneath Hamming's arm. The pickaxe had been dropped from his hands during the scuffle, leaving him with his bare fingers to grope and gouge, trying to release the pressure. He managed to raise a particularly long welt along Hamming's forearm, but the boy refused to let go. Yet the hands refused to give up the fruitless attempt to worm between their bodies.

"Damn it," Hamming muttered, feeling the anxiety grow, wanting to end this quickly, not understanding why Doogan was being so unreasonable. "Just tell me where the fucking bottle is. I don't want it for myself. I'll bring it to him, I swear, that's all I want to do." His voice was a low hiss in Doogan's ear, but the Breton was beyond listening.

He stared in horror as Doogan's heels pounded the tunnel floor, as his fingers clawed at empty air, before the body in his arms suddenly went lax.

Hamming let go of him as if he had caught fire, pushing him away, watching with wide eyes as the body rolled limply onto its side facing away from him. He could see a corner of cheek and jaw through lanky yellow hair, the skin a blotchy purple.

"Fuck!" Hamming had killed a man.

His first impulse was to run, to back away and run as fast and as far as he could… but there was no where to go. And he still didn't have the bottle, the one thing he had come here for in the first place. What good would it do him, if he went through so much trouble—to the point of killing—and didn't come out of it with the bottle, didn't even take the time to search for it? He swallowed his disgust and made himself crawl over to the body. Quickly, roughly, his hands patted down the form seeking odd lumps, burrowed through the folds of cloth looking for hidden pockets, even combed through the greasy hair…

But there was no bottle.

"By the Nine!" he swore, feeling panic tighten his chest, squeeze his heart, push tears towards his eyes. The only chance he and Vorstag had of surviving the rest of their sentence had disappeared with that damnable bottle. He scrambled on all fours, mudcrab-like, away from the body and towards the side of the tunnel, only stopping when his head hit the stones.

"Shit!"

The pain helped to settle his panic so he could at last think. Whatever was going on, one fact was clear: there was no bottle. Yet it didn't make sense, not if Madanach wanted the bottle. The Orc had sent him specifically…

"Shit!" It was possible the damned Orc had known there was no bottle, and sent him here on some fool's errand to get him out of the way, or some prank where they would all get a good laugh at his expense, or even in the hopes that Doogan would kill him… only things had gone wrong. Things had gone very wrong, and a man was dead.

"Fuck!"

Hamming knew it with a certainty that nearly stopped his heart: he was a dead man. Whether or not the Orc had sent him here to die or as the butt of a joke no longer mattered. The other prisoners would quickly find out that Doogan was dead, and it wouldn't take long before the Orc stepped forward and said that Hamming had been sent to speak with Doogan, and then…

He stood up, his blood running cold as he realized he didn't have any options. He was as good as dead, but that didn't mean Vorstag had to die, too. He wouldn't let his best friend suffer from guilt by association.

He stumbled out of the tunnel, leaving Doogan's body tossed and disheveled on the ground, and made his way back to where he and Vorstag had been working lately.

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Two dark figures blended from different shadows to merge.

"Is he alright?" one form called out softly, mindful of how sound echoed down the tunnels.

"He'll live," the second answered, "Though it'll be awhile before he's back to normal. Neck's bruised something fierce, and his voice is all but gone, but he managed to tell me what happened."

"Well?" Their footsteps were as soft as their voices as they continued through the mine. "What happened?"

"One of the bitches caught him off guard, attacked him, kept asking for some stupid bottle or something. Probably Borkul's idea of a joke. Only things went wrong. Kid never gave Doogan enough air to answer, and nearly choked him to death."

"Who?" The voice was deep, deadly, and calm.

The second didn't answer, not right away, not until they had reached their destination. In the dim light coming from the large chamber, he nodded his chin towards the two boys. "The thicker one."

"He nearly killed Doogan; we're not letting that go unpunished, are we?"

"We won't," he answered, taking something small and sharp out of his clothing. "It's probably what Madanach intended from the start, letting the Nord get himself in enough trouble to incur his death."

The other smiled, the yellow teeth glowing eerily in the dim light. "Do we kill them both?"

"Just the one, for now," was the answer. He started to hand over the thing from his hand. "Use this…"

The shiv fell to the stone ground, the sound echoing down the tunnel and around the inside of the chamber, and both men quickly bent over to pick it up.

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Vorstag was diligently chipping away at the same vein he and Hamming had been working all week. He had two buckets with him—as promised—and was doing his best to fill them equally. He turned when he heard Hamming's footsteps behind him, and managed a semblance of a relieved sort of smile for all of three seconds.

Vorstag noted the look on his face, the tense set of his shoulders, or the rapid flickering movements of his eyes. He wasn't sure what it had been, but he knew there was something going on. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The reply was short, constrained, hoping to keep Vorstag at a distance, a safe distance. He looked down at the bucket and made a grab for the handle. Vorstag's hand met his, keeping him from getting clean away.

"Hamming…" he began, not sure how to proceed, but knowing he needed to find out what had happened to his friend.

The sounds from behind them, near the entrance of the tunnel, made both boys look around. Two men stood just outside the chamber, one of whom Vorstag knew to be with the Forsworn, both of whom stood and stared at the two of them. It was tense and silent, the four of them facing and staring, for several long moments. Then Hamming broke eye contact and tugged the bucket from Vorstag's grip.

"What…?" he looked to his friend, but Hamming was turning away, walking to another part of the chamber to try his luck at smaller vein of ore. He looked back to the entrance, but the two men were also turning away. He waited, watching the entrance to see if the men would come back, but apparently they were being left alone. He left his bucket to step close enough to Hamming and whisper, "What happened? Did you find a place where we can…"

"Nothing!" Hamming hissed, giving him a shove. "Just… stay away, Vorstag. For Talos' sake, stay away from me!" He lifted intensely pleading eyes to his, his face screwed up with anguish, before he turned away.

Vorstag stared at Hamming's retreating back, unable to comprehend the situation as his best friend stalked out of the chamber. He made to go after him, to try to find out what was wrong, but his feet stumbled over the dropped pickaxe. By the time he stopped to see what had tripped him, and looked up again, Hamming was gone.

Someone else, however, came into view. Someone else passed in front of the entrance, going in the same direction as Hamming. It was one of the two men from just a moment ago.

An icy chill of warning dripped down his spine, freezing him to the spot. He thought he knew what must have happened.

Hamming had left that morning, intending to find a place where the two of them could hide or evade their nighttime visitors.

Hamming had come back quite some time later, a cold sweat dampening his armpits and a long scratch on his forearm, his eyes wide and his tone abrupt.

And Hamming was being followed.

Vorstag fought against the lump in his throat, threatening to choke the breath from him. Hamming was being followed… by a Forsworn.

"Shit…" he exhaled into the empty chamber. There was only one reason he could think of that would explain the strange situation, Hamming had taken a wrong turn and seen or heard something he shouldn't have, something to do with the Forsworn. Grabbing his bucket, he determinedly left in search of his friend. Whatever trouble he was in, he wasn't going to let him face it alone.

He never noticed the man following him.

He didn't manage to get Hamming alone again until supper time. They had finished the day mining a more public chamber, one with several fresh veins and lots of miners on the overhead scaffolding. Vorstag spent his time split between watching where his pickaxe was hitting, and where the shadow—the one who'd been following Hamming—was lurking from a corner. Every time he approached his friend, every time he tried to talk, Hamming would always shake his head and move away again.

When their work was done for the day, when they turned in heavy buckets for a morsel of food, Vorstag finally managed to get Hamming penned. They stood side-by-side while they ate, and he leaned over to whisper, "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit," Vorstag took hold of his forearm, twisting it to bring the angry scratch to the other's sight. "You saw or heard something, didn't you? Took a wrong turn, went down the wrong tunnel, came across something you shouldn't know about? Something to do with the Forsworn…"

Hamming slammed his other fist into Vorstag's face, not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to shut him up and drop him onto his ass. Vorstag looked up from the ground, hurt and mad a just a little embarrassed.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

Vorstag refused to let his eyes water, but his cheeks were burning with his emotions. The expression he shot upwards was full of hurtful reproach. He tried to ignore the other prisoners, who let loose with guffaws and catcalls, thinking the two youths were about to fight and wanting to encourage the entertainment. Vorstag tried to get his hands behind him in preparation for standing, but only managed to stick his hand into his bowl of food, tipping the contents out over the ground. Hamming looked like he wanted to take the words back, wanted to take the whole day back, but there was nothing more he could do. "Just… leave me alone, Vorstag. I'm sorry. I… I'm…"

Words failed him, so he simply walked away.

His shadow trailed behind him.

Vorstag reached his feet, wiping the gruel off his hand. He didn't watch Hamming leave. He was too sore. After all, he had tried, hadn't he? He had kept offering over and over to help him, to find out what happened, to maybe think of a solution. But Hamming kept cutting him off, pushing him away, leaving him out of whatever had happened.

The bitterness was hard to swallow, but he managed it, along with the pitiful amount left of his supper.

He knew he'd be safe tonight from molestation—the men never came two nights in a row, so he wasn't too worried about finding a companionless place and curling up against the cold night, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. The warden walked through the tunnels, her steps making the scaffolding thunder and creak, as she extinguished the torches and let the night commence. Yet it was several hours before exhaustion finally beat his racing thoughts into submission and allowed a semblance of restfulness to slip over him.

Morning brought pain, pain that shattered the last shred of peace he had been able to scrape together.

It wasn't the torchlight that was so terrible.

It wasn't his solitary awakening that left an empty hole in his chest.

It was when he noticed that Hamming hadn't shown up for breakfast. Then, with fear and anxiety pounding in his heart, he left behind his barely-touched bowl and sought out his friend.

The tunnels were empty, everyone having gathered for the meal, not willing to waste the tasteless gruel, their only weapon against hunger. A different pain was gnawing at Vorstag's insides, more than effectively drowning out the hunger and deprivation. He searched every chamber, every side tunnel, every dead-end, his steps growing quicker and his heart pounding heavier the more time passed.

When he found Hamming, he wished he had never started his search.

He gave no cry of alarm, or anguish, or injustice. Vorstag simply dropped to his knees beside the still body and reached out to touch the cheek. Hamming was dead, had been for some time judging by the temperature of his corpse. His eyes were open and sightless, his mouth as well, as if he had been caught by surprise. The end of a shiv poked out of his chest, right over his heart, the blood already congealed and black.

Footsteps were heard above him, and Vorstag lifted his face to see one of the miners coming into the chamber. "Get the warden," he called up to him, his voice flat, emotionless. "A prisoner's dead."

The rest of the day passed in a fog. Vorstag barely remembered wrapping the body and carrying it to where it could be lifted up for removal. He remembered spending quite a few hours staring at a wall, chips of stone and ore coming away and landing in a bucket. Someone had touched his shoulder when the bell rang for supper, and he remembered sitting alone on a bench and staring at a bowl of something that might've been stew.

All he could think, however, was that he was now alone. Hamming had promised him, swore to him that he wouldn't leave him alone. Yet he was alone. And in a night or two, those men would come, and there would be no one to share the pain, the humiliation, the degradation. He had been left on his own again.

First his parents.

Now his best friend.

Did he have anything—anyone left to live for?

After supper, after somehow managing to swallow the meager sustenance, he left to find a corner to wait out the night.

He wasn't surprised when he heard the footsteps, fainter and dimmer than the darkness, more of a trembling felt through the ground beneath his cheek. A knee fell against his back, punching his kidneys, making him grunt as the wind was knocked out of him. He didn't resist as fists battered at his body, knocking him this way and that, softening him up. Even when a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and bent his head back, exposing the veins in his neck, he didn't struggle.

"Speak!" a voice hissed in his ear.

He opened his mouth, but only managed a strangled sort of cough. The grip was adjusted only slightly to allow a ribbon of air through to his lungs.

"Your friend, what did he tell you?"

"Nothing," Vorstag groaned, trying to swallow, spittle already at the corners of his mouth. He felt his face grow red and hot as the blood pounded in his ears. "I don't know shit!"

"I will kill you, you know," a sharp point was pressed against the flesh of his neck, just beside his artery, "If you continue lying to me. Just like I did your friend."

"Go ahead," he croaked, his voice strained due to the odd angle. "I don't know what Hamming saw or overheard. I don't know! He wouldn't even speak to me afterwards. So if you want to kill me, do it! You'll be doing me a favor!"

The hand paused. There was no way Vorstag could know what was going through his would-be executioner's mind, how Hamming hadn't been killed for something he saw or heard, but rather something he had tried to do. If Vorstag didn't know even that much, then perhaps the boy didn't know enough to warrant his death. And the last thing he wanted was to do a Nord a favor.

The hands let go of his hair and pulled the sharp point off his throat. The knee lifted from his back, and suddenly Vorstag was able to breathe freely again. He coughed and sputtered, sucking air into his lungs, curling onto his side to try to ease some of the pain in his back. "You…" he paused to clear his throat and tried again. "You're not going to kill me?"

"Like you said," the voice answered, fading as it retreated, "You don't know shit. And I'd hate to deprive my fellows of their only source of… relief."

His face reddened, thinking of what he meant. "Fucker!" he coughed, but the voice only gave a ghostly chuckle as it disappeared into the nothingness.

They came for him the next night, all those men, all those hungry, angry, eager, bitter, desperate souls. And he endured them alone.

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An unknowable amount of time later, a new prisoner arrived. Vorstag hardly paid any attention, chipping intently at the stone and the ore, his heart too numb to care. He had his routine, an endless monotony of working and eating and sleeping. And abuse. He found he could sleep, even on those nights when they would come, he could catch a little sleep beforehand, and easily drift off afterwards, his mind too desensitized and hopeless to fuss or stress over those things he couldn't control.

He barely acknowledged the new prisoner at first, even though he seemed intent on talking and striking up a friendship. Vorstag answered his questions with monosyllable words and a few vague shrugs, pointing towards the spare pickaxes or where the bucket was for waste, shrugging when asked about the other prisoners.

"I was just wondering," the man said, "Who to stay away from, ya know?"

Vorstag again shrugged one shoulder, before swinging his pickaxe at the rock.

The prisoner continued undaunted, "Because I've heard, well, that there are a lot of Forsworn in here, and being a Nord…" He let his voice trail away when he heard footsteps behind them.

Vorstag glanced over his shoulder to see who was there, and just as quickly glanced away. He knew he should speak, warn him to keep his head down or something, but the words stuck in his throat. The man behind them was a Forsworn, one he was sure was one of his abusers, not that he had any way to prove it. Yet it was instinct for him to submissively keep his gaze averted as he returned to his work, just in case.

When the man moved away, when the footsteps died down the length of the tunnel, Vorstag finally found the courage to answer. He leaned over to quietly say, "Keep your head down. Serve your time."

"That what you do?" he asked, setting a friendly hand on his shoulder, and for the first time Vorstag looked up at him full in the face. The new prisoner was young, perhaps a year or two older than him, but his features were still honest and open, still youthful and trusting and…

Vorstag had to turn away, fearful of his own pained and jaded features. He couldn't help but wonder if he and Hamming had looked so young and innocent when they first arrived, if that look was what had attracted their tormentors. Hesitantly he tried to warn him, but found the words changed between his thoughts and his lips, "Just… keep to your own business."

"Aye, my own business," he muttered, dropping his hand and taking up his pickaxe. He made a disgruntled swing at the stone, but his next words belied his acceptance of the advice. "I got six months for being starved and stealing a pair of apples. How long you in for?"

He probably shouldn't have answered, but for one selfish moment, if felt good to talk with someone again. "A year. Drunken fighting in public."

The other whistled between swings, suddenly thinking he wasn't so bad off after all. "How much time you got left on that sentence?"

The pickaxe missed the target, glancing harmlessly off the wall. Vorstag stared at it dumbly, as if he couldn't understand how he could've missed the entire side of the tunnel. "I… I don't know. Lost track of the time."

"Well, it's the seventeenth of Second Seed, if that helps," he offered.

Vorstag took a moment to remember, thinking through the months, counting out the days, feeling the pain surface as he thought of all the time that had passed, and all the time he still had left. "Two more months, there about."

Two more months of enduring… no, he wouldn't think of it. It happened. That was all the thought he wanted to allot for it. He pushed the idea of time out of his mind and returned to his work, walking over to a different vein and putting distance between himself and the new prisoner. It was safer to keep numb, to keep to himself, to keep at bay thoughts of freedom and hopes of an end to his torment…

The bell rang, signaling supper and the end of the work day. Vorstag dropped his pickaxe and picked up his bucket, the other following suit, not sure what to do and thankful to have someone—even a slightly taciturn Nord—to look to for guidance. All through the meal the other tried again to have a conversation, standing next to Vorstag, joking about the quality of the food, just like Hamming had once done…

It suddenly hit Vorstag like a physical blow. Instinctively knowing what he'd find, he looked up and saw the man from earlier, the one who had approached them from behind shortly after the new prisoner had arrived. Vorstag thought he had been looking at him, but now he realized he had been looking at the other. He followed that man as he approached a group of men—the men he was sure were the ones—sitting together, staring at the pair of them.

No, staring at the newest prisoner with dark and hungry eyes.

Shit, he thought to himself. He knew what was going to happen. He knew it would happen tonight. And he knew—by the Nine!—he knew it would happen to the youth sitting next to him. Vorstag stared at his face, so young, so soft, with barely any beard yet growing. He wondered briefly what it would look like tomorrow, in the morning, after it happened.

He wondered if those men would come for them both.

He should have said something, some sort of warning or advice or… what? What could he say? What good could he do? It was going to happen; there was nothing to stop it.

He stood and walked away, leaving the other abruptly, not wanting to think any more. Thinking only made things worse. Thinking only brought up guilt for those things he couldn't affect. Thinking made him… made him… feel… human…

That night, the newest prisoner found a small nook not too far down the tunnel from where Vorstag lay. That night, those men came and eased their frustrations on another, leaving Vorstag alone.

That night, for the first time since before Hamming died, Vorstag's eyes were wet. Because he hadn't done anything. Because he hadn't even tried. Because he was glad to be left alone. Because he didn't want those men to abuse him just for ruining their sport.

He was left alone, that night and every night after, until the end of his sentence.

**A/N: I think I see a pattern to these deleted scenes…**

**I probably shouldn't have posted this part of Vorstag's story, but it needed to be written before I wrote about his recovery in ****Riften. And since I was writing it, I posted it.**

**And yup, I'm crying. I felt so bad writing this, knowing that Hamming was going to die. I mean, I had that in the plot, even before I ever named the character, back when I was writing HoF, and while writing this, he got so cocky and charming and confident and made me smile and love him and then I remembered he was going to die and I… I just… *sniff* I just… *bawls***

**Some days, yup, I can admit it, I'm evil.**

**Next part will continue on to Riften (and those matching tattoos)!**


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